Beyond The Ripper
by Light The Visionary
Summary: "Today was a practice. An experiment, if you will. Today, exactly 113 years after the original, I began recreating the Whitechapel Murders."


**A/N – And for fic number 20, I decided to mix it up a bit.**

**I've recently read Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, and I can honestly say I adore Beyond Birthday. I noticed several similarities between him and Jack the Ripper, and thus, this one shot was born. I'm not too sure how this turned out, I watched a JTR Documentary before starting this and researched his letters and all that, so I think I got what I was going for.**

**Let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy x]**

**Disclaimer – I don't own Beyond Birthday, L or Jack the Ripper.**

**Warnings – Blood, death, insanity and implied cannibalism.**

* * *

Have you ever wondered how difficult it would be to kill someone? I bet you have. I'd bet my jam on it.

Humans are hateful creatures. They view those inferior to themselves with disgust, and the superior with contempt.

Yes, I have no doubt that every man and woman on this earth, the world that is decaying as fast as it is advancing, has thought about killing another.

With this in mind, is what I've done so terrible? So condemning?

Is acting upon a thought so detestable?

I know the majority of you will claim it is. That homicidal thoughts are different to an actual act of murder.

But I don't see how.

A question to those of you who would be screaming for my imprisonment.

Are you doing so because I deserve it? Or because it makes you feel better about your own murderous fancies?

We all have people who inspire us. Who we aspire to be like.

Where I grew up, the person who 99% of the children wanted to be was L.

The Worlds Greatest Detective.

The filthy hypocrite who fights for what he calls 'justice'. Calls for the incarceration of those who have committed 'unforgivable' crimes.

The one who will happily sacrifice lives for 'the greater good'.

How he sickens me.

If children can be inspired by someone like him, what's wrong with me following in the footsteps of my hero?

At Wammys House, everyone wanted to be like the Worlds Greatest Detective.

I wanted to be like the Worlds Greatest Criminal.

_Jack the Ripper_.

The serial killer who **never got caught.**

The unsolvable murder case. How I admire him.

One day, I will give the world a murder case that not even L himself can solve.

But not right now.

* * *

August 31st, 2001.

Today was a practice. An experiment, if you will.

Today exactly 113 years after the original, I began recreating the Whitechapel Murders.

Her name was Mary Anne Russell. Selected for her first name.

It was a perfectly executed killing; two deep cuts effectively severing her throat, a bloody rip in the abdomen. Painfully simple. She didn't even have time to scream.

I now understand why Jack the Rippers killings increased in violence.

I could grow bored of this easily.

How did I dispose of the body, you ask?

I'll let you figure that out for yourselves.

I will tell you this though: the police will never find the corpse.

* * *

September 8th, 2001.

Annie Hinchcliff. 43 years old, divorced, mother of three, and as of 6am this morning, deceased.

I never really realised how much blood the human body contained.

Enough to drown in, surely.

Maybe when I've completed this project, I'll base my next one on Elizabeth Báthory. If blood soaked hands are this satisfying, she may have been onto something with bathing in it. But that's a thought for another day.

As for the murder itself, to describe it would be tedious.

This is not a crime novel, nor is it a documentation of self praise.

It is merely a record which I doubt will ever be read by anyone other than myself. Not in my lifetime anyway.

Her death, as per history, was none too different to the last. A dual slashed throat, a gouged stomach, a missing uterus.

I suspect dear Jack may have been somewhat of a misogynist.

As expected, my previous victim has gone unnoticed by the authorities. I have not seen so much as a 'missing' poster. It seems that my confidence was not misplaced.

But so far, the murders have been easy and have presented no problems. The real gauge of my abilities has yet to begin.

* * *

September 30th, 2001.

I've always loved a challenge. And it's always been immensely difficult to find one worthy of me. In fact, one could say that finding a challenge has been a challenge in itself.

But of course, if one **were** to say such a thing, I'd have to hurt you for being such a smart-assed bullshitter.

I will admit that even with my... abilities, finding appropriate victims for my 3rd and 4th victims was difficult.

Fortunately, I am not the type to back down. I'm far too stubborn for such a retreat.

The lucky women were Emily Stride and Katherine Conners.

Both were cornered in a dark alley after exiting a night club.

The fools.

Miss Stride died quickly. Possibly even painlessly.

It matters not.

Miss Conners was considerably more intriguing.

None of the rest has been alive during their dissection.

None of the rest had _screamed_.

I could see the fear in her eyes. Her rapid conversion from confusion, to panic. Pure, unhidden **terror**.

Delicious.

Her quiet whimpers as I sliced open her stomach quickly turned to panicked screams as I began rearranging her organs.

I saved her throat for last.

After storing the newly dismembered body parts into the refrigerator for... ahem.. 'later disposal', I began removing a number of bricks from a section of my basement hideout's wall. The perfect place to hide bones, a bloody knife, a piece of kidney, and a message.

_'From Wammys_

_L,_

_Detective_

_I leave you half the kidney from one woman preserved with ethanol. The other piece, well, let us not get into that._

_I have also left you the bloody knife that removed it._

_Signed,_

_Catch me if you can, L.'_

* * *

November 9th, 2001.

"Mutilated", "Defiled", "Savaged".

These are just a few of the words that could be used to describe the mangles corpse lying at my feet.

My greatest work.

Throat to spine, destroyed. Organs strewn around my feet like flowers in a meadow.

She was Jane Kelly. Now, she's vermin food.

And no one will ever know.

And now, finally, I'm ready to begin what will be the greatest war of all time.

I'm ready to challenge L.

What's more, I'm ready to **win**.


End file.
